Hypodermic
by Cassend
Summary: '...Like cracking her dream world open and letting sobriety bleed out.' WeskerxJill Non/Dubcon


_ABC- For the kink meme while I work on my next big project. I have a talent for freaking people out. This... this is freaky... creepy, **disturbing**. MUCH TO MY DEMENTED DELIGHT, it's disturbing even to me. Disturbing..._ if you do not want PWP and rapistish Wesker- advising that you turn back now. As always, ABC loves you.

**Hypodermic**

They plucked her off the streets, but the problem began far, far sooner. It's those pretty pills that made her forget, the kind that they called "candy" that made her crazy, made her unstoppable. Introduced to it early, taken advantage of and molded like soft dough.

Hundreds of kids went that way, he'd seen it before, time and time again. He had to look at her entire profile from the most out of body point of view possible, that first day. The history sounded as grotesque as he expected, but not really more, or less. At face value this woman seemed to be just another ant in the mill.

Day one. She attacked him, handcuffed, and managed to somehow knock him to the ground with two armed guards trying to wrench her back under control. She was violent and evidently hard to hold, her gangly beaten limbs finding new exits at every chance. Albert Wesker stood and demanded that everyone needed to leave the room, and grabbed Miss Valentine herself, twisting her into a cement wall.

Day one was when he was impressed with her tenacity, but most of all, her lucidity. She was an addict, addicted to MDMA, Ecstasy, she shook and she was caked with sweat; she was absolutely hyper aware of herself, and a cynical, talented, but most of all, determined young woman. Day one was when he found out everything about the skinny, shivering hellcat of the woman's cell block.

Days one through 200 didn't prepare him for this, but it's been said he's a very talented man, adaptable.

"I need it." She hissed, not her calm voice but a hiss that dripped from her lips. He didn't know why he showed up, it was one of those feelings that you just had to act on.

Chris took her to a club, she texted him. He assumed the worst. She never texted him before. And here was the worst he assumed, swaying on him to a pulsing beat. He was a logical, calculative individual, his brain was ALWAYS in control.

Jill Valentine has lipstick on, a dark shade that makes those words more moist, more full. She was out of her mind and gyrating on him, he could taste the sweat on her, feel her tremble. Redfield… that fucking idiot. Chris was god knows where, and Jill…

"Give me more." She licked out, licked him, his lips. He growled and scooped her close to tear her away from this crowd of lechers, leeches. Every shiver made his nerves twitch, they wanted to spring out of his skin.

Wanted to latch onto her.

'_Give me more.'_

He growled at his own lingering fantasies, cruel temptation wouldn't leave him. The club pounded like a heart, frantic pendulum for his feet to get her the fuck out of there. She hadn't asked to be picked up, she hadn't asked for help at all. What she had said was just. 'I might have to take a sick day tomorrow.'

She never took a day off. She came to work even if she had to run the porcelain marathon every five seconds (much to the chagrin of everyone else). So he drove to the club. He picked her out amongst the crowd, honestly difficult, and he wanted to rip Redfield's testes out of his body.

She was high. Really fucking high.

High enough to grind her hips against him while they were walking, (how she managed that in strappy stilettos, he had no idea.) He clapped his hand over her hair, straightened for the occasion, and hid her face close to him as he pulled her out the door, fuming.

"Come on… come on baby I need it… god… give me more-" she hissed. Legs like wobbly jelly. Swaying when she walked, tongue poised on her bottom lip. Wet invitation, he resisted only because his mind over matter attitude was truly screaming.

"Valentine" he growled, grabbed her jaw, inspected her face close as if that would do anything. "Get a **hold** of yourself."

Jill giggled, drunk sound, like she was a million miles away, licking the wax from her lips; red smeared tongue. Her body language was all wrong, too relaxed, too… not herself. He grumbled with himself, mulled over and chewed on the thoughts until they were raw and damp. Her fingers, masters of the piano he was told, were on him in places that they really shouldn't be for a co-worker, much less, a subordinate officer.

To his fly, playing a melody on metal zipper teeth, charming. He grabbed her pair of pawing hands and she whined.

"God- please…" she hissed. "I need it so bad, give me more-"

She's all over the place. Shoulders forward and head back, Strappy cammi mussed and skirt riding up. Wesker felt his face harden as a mimic for what he felt beneath his pants. She's not talking about sex, she's talking about the drug, the drug that she was supposed to be off.

Her body says yes, her name says NO. Her hips said yes when he tried to lead her to his car and she fell messily against him, pinning him to the door. She was dressed like a hooker with messy lips and a succulent libido. He was torn, shameful, but not. One head, the logic, said the far left "NO". His head between his legs pulsed against his pants.

She had breath like the poison that falls from the receiver of a phone, gasps, shaking…

He shoved her into the car's backseat and slammed the door. He needed a long shower and some lotion… god damn it…

Get her smoke-stained sweaty body out of his head.

Or in it. He walked around and slipped into the leather interior, upholstery squeezing him tight, while she made sounds that redefined the space, made it tighter, more unbearable. She rolled around, whimpered, clung to herself, shook.

His knuckles were bloodless from gripping the wheel so tightly, clutching at something real to ignore the sweaty body staining his seats with her perfume and her sloppy wet cries in a mantra.

'_I need it- give it to me- baby please.'_

The blood in his fingers rapidly fled to other regions and a sharp right turn followed. She sounded so much worse than cheap hotel pay-per view, much worse because it was _her_ voice. Moans laced with a hot body, dry mouth begging to be moistened.

"I'm firing Chris." He snarled, to no one really, because the junkie in the back was no ears and all thighs, occupied by her own thighs. Maybe he should've knocked her out.

"G-god…" she hissed, clawing at her face with fresh painted nails, chipped at the edges. He snarled and pulled into her tiny house on the block, one of those smashed together closets made livable; Brick houses sandwiched into something architecturally serving a purpose and aesthetically dirty. It was a cheap place, she didn't complain.

He pulled into the driveway as she was touching her trashy maroon lips. Trashy because they were faded, smeared. Who had she kissed? He doubted she recalled.

"Jill." He said, tersely. It was futile. Her eyes twisted attention like a string, snapped to him, she smiled.

More of that horrible mantra fell from her lips. He got out of the car, berated himself for being so weak against the opposite sex, took a breath like a prescription to fight a cancer before he opened the car door.

Letting out his poison, what a mistake… She spilled out and he caught her by the shoulders with a groan of agitation. Like handling something slick with oil.

He had to drag her to stand, she appeared delighted at his hands, even going so far as to move them down the thing fabric of that cammi and he lingered. There was heat under there, skin and sweat and possibilities. The possibilities made his logic sneer, turn devious and lick its lips. He could carry her in, could indulge her, and she'd remember nothing but flickers- nothing but what could've happened last night.

Immoral as it seemed, the woman he took the house key from (she always kept in in her shoe, which was one hell of a lucky choice by her) was making it impossible to think morally.

_Was he a moral man in the first place?_

She teetered as he crossed her threshold, kicking her door closed. Possibilities itched at his fingers, she sputtered more. More drugs more artificial happiness in a capsule. Sweating and pining, pleading.

She didn't want him, in fact- but now it was a little too late for second guesses, second chances. Her lips were on his neck now, begging to have more.

More artificial heaven. Pretty blue eyes lost in a miasma of god knows what.

"Jill." He purred. Dark logic made his mouth move, made him smile and delight as she trembled and shook. Her name rolled like her sweaty lips and tasted just as perfect. Salt, lipstick and Jill. She squirmed as he kissed her, he dug with his tongue until she was kissing back. Intoxicated, confused. Kissing without understanding, but she didn't stop.

He kissed her backwards, she tripped and landed on the steps with an audible yelp, and a man on top of her, his hand at the base of her skull to cushion the inevitable. If she hurt at all from that, she gave no sign of it. No, she was as blank and devoid of pain, as she was of an opinion. He nipped her lips. "Do you want it?" he sneered, or rather… his lust sneered and he simply questioned- perfect poker face.

Mantra repeated with so much more saliva, so much more lipstick in his mouth.

"Give it to me- god…" stammered out as her hands quaked, clawed at his face.

"My _pleasure_, darling."

Hiss like the grin of a Chesire Cat, cruel and berating. The "you don't really know" grin. He was a liar without telling it. He purred at her body, at all this salty sweat on her face, let his tongue lap at it cautiously. Her head lolled from one side to the other, following him, breathing faster, squirming.

The carpet of the steps was clawed when he cleaned her neck, sucked on her pulse, let his nails dig under the straps and pull her arms through the loops. She groaned and trembled harder, semi-aware and semi-alarmed. Her body was limp but responsive, every touch made her twitch and jump, gasp a little.

"Shhh- I'm not going to hurt you." -Abhorrent coo and his lips over her top, wrapping around her nipple and sucking, wetting the fabric, feeling the way it rolled back. It screamed at him to free the skin, he dug an arm under her spine and pulled it down, rolled the flesh between his teeth and decided he loved It.

Jill whimpered, her eyes were a mixed bag of scared and aroused, somewhere under the influence of her poison, she was still looking out at him. It made him unbearably hard.

"I promise darling-" He sighed between licks to her sweat slicked breasts, such a vile triad of words only rivaled by "I love you" (And he would never say that.)

_'dearest'_

She whimpered louder, swallowed. "I-need… _it_." She choked. Heavy emphasis on the "it".

'_beloved'_

He pretended not to notice. His hand wound itself under her skirt; he growled at himself for taking his time (and simultaneously was reminded it was worth it). His fingertips stroked her through the fabric of her panties, meeting wet satin.

"Valentine, I will not hurt you." He murmured, pushing his fingertips into her sex, denting the expensive underwear. Dressed to impress? He craved what was under the clothes. She mewled, said something unintelligible, sprawled on the steps with her stiletto heels like talons in the carpet.

'_- though you made a grievous mistake.'_

He molded her flesh, wet panties and all in his palm, rocking it against her, curling fingers over and sinking them in- to which she cried out, hissed that she wanted "it".

He smiled, rotten soul seeping through his fangs as he kissed her again, hot, sweaty lips and a sewer-like disposition. His fingers wound up the underwear, clenched them in a fist and pulled them down, stepping over them with spider legs and letting his long fingers trace her wet sex, the soft lips and sink into her core.

The reaction was amazing. Scientific fascination almost had him at her back curling, her legs parting, her breath hitching when those fingers of his ran the sweet slip of her inside, traced her pulse along the wet walls. She rocked against his fingers out of natural inclination, closed her eyes and licked the remnants of the lipstick off.

"Uhhn- I…. want… it…." She repeated, more stress on each word, less thought in the already diluted subject. He added a finger and started pumping the digits in and out. Long fingers and thick knuckles to crack her composition, callouses from kickback to add flavor to the fight. She moaned and he grinned, thumb at her clit to press and rub her sensitive buttons. He didn't know what this felt like on ecstasy, but he knows-

_She wants __**it**__ bad. _

He does what her hand wanted to, unzips his fly with one hand, thumbs himself with a thought.

Possibilities writhe as he pulls his hand from her sex, licks his fingers. She trembles, mess of hair colored like coffee, spilled over the gray carpet with the rest of her pale body. Gorgeous body.

"Jill-" he starts, and smiles at his own idea. "_Do you want it?_ I can give it to you if you do as I say."

She whimpers. Her pussy aches, drips, and bruised lips part to allow a single word to sputter out of her. "- PLEASE…"

'_scream it'_

He takes her hand from driving permanent indents to the carpet, and places it between her legs, forces her skirt up higher.

"Go on, _darling_."

She does. She touches herself how her body tells her to, drunkenly, she moans. He watches it and rubs himself, solid already, denying for the pleasure of watching her like this, watching her gone and under his thumb. His tip weeps for lust, he wanted her screaming, but she's not a screamer.

"Give it to me now?" she weakly whispered, gasped, and grabbed herself hard to impress him further, forcing water out and his allure in. She was so naïve in the state of absence.

This picture is so perfect, her so vulnerable, so weak but so much body. He grinned and snared her hips with bent fingers, mashed her ass into the floor and parted her legs.

"Yes, _Jill_." He said. He snared her hips and slid in slow. Soaking sexes meeting. He groaned. "Fuck…"

'_exactly' _

She was tight, she cried out, lashed at his head, gripped his slicked back hair and her fingers found new excavating sites on his scalp.

Her body slithered against him, wet, soaking, inside she was hot and thick, muscle pulsing, cradling him. He savored the first penetration, pulled her hips to inch deeper.

Like cracking her dream world open and letting sobriety bleed out.

She was scared so quickly, it almost scared him. Her eyes flew open, her heart near stopped. He kissed her gently to try and alleviate it.

But he hardly slowed down. His thumbs burned patterns into her hipbones, he grunted with the pull back, slammed into her again. Still scared, more scared, so he kissed her again, tenderly.

She cried into his mouth, mix of words and pleasure. Maybe those words were "no" or "stop". He didn't know, his lips muffled her, his cock invaded her and slid faster, pushed faster in and out of that body. His hands clawed her sweaty thighs, clamped down hard.

Whether she wanted to, or not. It was quite silenced, drugged with sex in addition to the chemical she took. Kisses, bruising lips and slamming her into the stairs, he felt as high as she probably was.

She started moaning, a low hum in her throat, he pounded her into the carpet, slid her back flush. She screamed when he pulled away, but it was strangled. He buried his face into her neck and she clawed holes into his head, followed his spine like a pathway to his black uniform, belts and straps attached.

She screamed again when he slammed her hard, cracked her back against a step, thumbing her clit in slow circles while the rest of him clawed to break free.

He bit like an animal for her vein, dug hard to drain her dry of everything, and buried himself as he felt her orgasm, surging around him, spurting down his cock with her liquid screams. He rocked her through it, hissed when his mind pulled hard.

"You wanted _it_." He snarled as he felt himself explode inside of her, heavy load, frustrations, desires. He rolled his hips until he was soft.

She hissed something out, shivered so badly she looked freezing. He chanced her a smile, as noxious as anything, and set his zipper again, pleasant feelings under his skin, satisfaction with himself, with his cobra tongue. He scooped her up in his arms and rubbed the base of her skull, cradled her fucked up head, and she whimpered and partially let out some sort of cry.

"Shh." He sighed, and carried her up the stairs to her room. She sobbed.

He stayed until she quieted, succumbed to her own delirium for dreams. She would be fine, he reasoned.

Chris on the other hand…

The smirk never left his face as he returned to his car. Redfield wouldn't need a lashing tomorrow.

He'd just need a nice full syringe of regret to his neck.


End file.
